‘Can’t we just cancel our flights?’ asks Nelson, popping the head off a grilled shrimp and tossing its torso into his mouth.
‘If only,’ replies Beverley with a sigh. ‘It has been magical, hasn’t it?’
‘Let’s just move here!’ suggests Achilles.
‘Our lives are in London,’ says George. ‘But don’t worry, we’ll do this again. It’s been tremendous fun.’ He glances across at his eleven-year-old daughter, who, while generally quite vivacious, has seemed rather quiet over the last half-hour. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ she replies, looking down at the table, unable to meet his eye.
‘We’re lucky, aren’t we?’ says Beverley. ‘To have such experiences. Well …’ And here her voice cracks a little. ‘I feel lucky anyway. To be with you, George. And you children. You’re all rather wonderful.’
‘Don’t get soppy, Mum,’ says Nelson.
‘Well, I mean it.’
‘You’re not all right,’ says George, frowning and leaning forward, noticing how his daughter is trembling slightly. ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’
All eyes turn towards Elizabeth and, in a moment, tears begin to roll down her cheeks. Her parents, her brothers, all stare at her. They’ve never seen her behave like this before. In a moment, both Nelson and Achilles each take her by a hand and pull her from her seat, dragging her towards the beach front, where George and Beverley can’t see them any more.
‘What on earth …?’ asks George, ready to stand up and follow them, but Beverley places a hand on his, telling him to stay where he is.
‘Let’s just wait,’ she says, her voice also filled with anxiety. ‘Let’s see what the boys do.’
It takes almost ten minutes but, eventually, all three children reappear. Elizabeth’s eyes are red, but she returns to her food without a word. Achilles looks confused and uncertain. Nelson looks furious. He’s the only one who doesn’t sit down and, when he walks back towards the bar area, both George and Beverley stand up and follow him, knowing that he’s waiting for them. Their eldest son. The responsible one.
‘That man over there,’ says Nelson, pointing to a table about fifty yards from their own, where a man in his early thirties is sitting alone, drinking beer. ‘He said something to her. When she went to the toilet.’
George and Beverley stare at their eldest son, taking his words in.
‘He said something to her,’ repeats Nelson, not meeting their eyes, clearly hoping that he won’t have to reveal what the man has said. It’s too embarrassing.
His parents turn around and look in the direction that the boy has indicated. George’s hands twist into fists and he takes a step forward but, before he can move, Beverley grips his forearm.
‘Oh no,’ she says, her face filled with contained rage, as she shakes her head. ‘I’ll handle this, thank you very much.’
And although what takes place over the next five minutes lands Beverley in a jail cell overnight on a charge of assault and battery, as far as she and everyone else is concerned, it’s worth every minute.
And at that precise moment, a group of former Stanford University students agree that ‘Ghostface Chillah’, a black-and-white shape centred in a yellow background, will become the image to represent their new multimedia messaging application, called Snapchat.
Thursday
SON OF ADOLF
Four groups of protestors, some carrying placards, were gathered outside the BBC and, when his taxi pulled up, George glared out of the window with barely concealed contempt before asking the driver whether he could remain in the safety of the back seat for a few minutes.
‘You can stay as long as you like, mate,’ replied the man, reaching for a copy of the Daily Mail from the passenger seat. ‘Just tell me when you’re ready to leave and I’ll turn the meter off. Here,’ he added, pointing towards the front page. ‘I see you’re in the wars.’
George peered through the glass screen and saw a particularly bad photograph of himself on the front page, looking both angry and double-chinned.
‘What have you done, then?’
‘It turns out I’m a horrible old bigot.’
‘I am too, as it happens,’ admitted the driver. ‘But they don’t stick me on the front page of the papers over it. That lot waiting for you, are they?’
‘I suspect so, yes. Have you ever read Frankenstein?’
‘I’ve seen the film.’
‘That’s what this reminds me of. An angry mob waving pitchforks and hurling abuse, ready to drag me off to the river and hurl me in.’
‘I don’t see any pitchforks.’
‘Trust me, they’re all carrying them. Metaphorical ones anyway.’
‘Well, it’d be a lot better to get poked in the arse by a metaphorical pitchfork than a real one, I imagine. Hello, we’re in trouble now.’
A security guard was walking towards them and he tapped on the driver’s window. The driver rolled it down and smiled politely.
‘Yes, guv’nor,’ he said.
‘You can’t park here,’ said the guard. ‘You have to go around the side if you’re waiting for someone.’
‘My passenger won’t leave,’ said the driver.
The security guard glanced into the back seat.
‘Oh, Mr Cleverley,’ he said in surprise. ‘I didn’t realize it was you.’
‘Hello, Samir,’ replied George, offering a half-wave. ‘Climb in. I could do with the company.’
Samir opened the back door and stepped inside.
‘You don’t have to ask me twice,’ he said as he shut the door. ‘As it happens, I have a passion for black cabs. I’ve often dreamed of owning one.’
‘You can have this one, if you like,’ said the driver, turning the pages of his newspaper. ‘Quarter of a million quid and I’ll give you the keys right now.’
‘I’m afraid my BBC salary wouldn’t stretch that far,’ said Samir.
‘Then we’ll stay as we are, shall we?’
‘I suppose they’re all here for me, are they?’ asked George, nodding towards the crowd.
‘Most of them, yes,’ admitted the security guard. ‘I split them into groups so I could keep track of them. Over there on the left are the ones who think you’re a racist.’
‘You know I’m not a racist, don’t you, Samir? I’d hate it if you thought otherwise.’
‘Of course, Mr Cleverley.’
‘As it happens, I’m particularly fond of your people. Always have been.’
‘My people?’
‘Moroccans. That’s where my wife and I went on our honeymoon, you know. Casablanca.’
‘Actually, I’m Lebanese,’ said Samir.
‘Not Moroccan?’
‘No.’
‘Well, how do you like that? Anyway, as long as you know that I’m not racist. So, who else is out there?’
‘The next group are the people who think you’re transphobic.’